Burn My Heart
by Captain Vox
Summary: Sherlock can't stand the thought of someone else touching John. John is HIS, after all. How far will Sherlock go to prove that?  Rated Mature for explicit adult content and language.  A little dark. Major spoilers for TGG.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock's finger flicks the edge of the curtains, letting rips of moonlight through the slits he creates. They play across the bed that John is sleeping in, sheets tucked around his t-shirted torso. Sherlock watches the thin line of John's mouth part open and he gasps out a breathy word or two. He looks like a soldier, Sherlock thinks. Calm in sleep, but muscles tensed just slightly as he waits for some mind-made danger.

_Moriarty…. "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you…"_

It wasn't fair! Sherlock can see Moriarty's hands all over John's body, strapping that damned vest to him. John is not Moriarty's, John is _his_. Sherlock's eyes blink up to John's closed ones. They are fluttering in REM sleep. There it is, what Sherlock is looking for, John tenses and draws his eyebrows into one another. What is he dreaming? It cannot be good. John looks stressed. Another breathy gasp passes between those perfect lips. "Sherlock…"

John had given up his life to Sherlock with just a subtle nod of the head when they had been at the pool. Twice. The thought makes Sherlock's chest feel funny. Emotions- he doesn't need to label them. It's pointless, since he knows what is most important. John is his and _no one_ else should be able to get to him. Sherlock needs to ensure this somehow.

A glint of silver flashes in his fingers- catches the moonlight tearing through the curtains, and Sherlock smiles as he rubs a thumb up and down the length of the object. Yes, he'll make sure they're together forever. He pushes off of the wall by the window and moves for the bed. He's glad it's low; that makes it easier for him to climb up onto the bed without worrying about the object in his hand. Sherlock straddles John's hips, enjoying the sudden spread of warmth where their bodies are touching. Sherlock looks down at John and leans slowly, letting his lips rest mere millimetres from John's. This is amazing, their breath mingling together just as physically as their touching bodies. Sherlock needs more, needs John to feel this, too.

"John, wake up." Sherlock brushes his lips over John's then pulls back. He watches as John's playfully colored eyes stutter open in long, slow blinks.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is a tumble of gravel. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock brings his hand up and presses the scalpel to John's throat, in the soft skin just under the curve of the jawbone. It doesn't break the skin. "There are so many things I could do to you, John."

He seems to be contemplating what Sherlock has said. John brings his fingers up to run along Sherlock's hand and down to the blade, warmed by long minutes of sitting in Sherlock's grasp. "Yes," he says simply. "Yes, there are." His fingers crawl back up to Sherlock's wrist but they don't push it away. John's hand just rests there, creating another volcanic connection on Sherlock's skin.

"I can't let him burn my heart." Sherlock looks deep into John's eyes. This is something John must understand. Sherlock needs another nod. He _needs_ John to give his life to him. "I could cut my heart out first." He presses the scalpel deeper into John's soft, giving flesh and watches as a bead of crimson pools along the silver sheen.

John's mouth draws together and pulls up in a small smile. "I'm not afraid to die by your hand, Sherlock."

"Is that a yes? We could bleed together John. We can lie here and watch our blood leave us, escape Moriarty, escape everyone else that would try to possess you." Sherlock draws the scalpel back from John's neck and lifts it to himself, leaving a trail of John's blood against the long curve of his own neck.

This time when John's hand moves up and wraps around Sherlock's wrist, he pulls at it, trying to move the scalpel from Sherlock's neck. "Stop it," John murmured.

Sherlock sighs emphatically and rolls onto his back next to John. He flips the scalpel over and over in his fingers. "I don't want anyone else to have you, John. Can't you understand that?"

John laughs a few bursts of notes and turns onto his side. Sherlock feels him pulled close, breath on Sherlock's neck right where John's blood was streaked. John's hand glides over his stomach, his fingers tickling Sherlock's skin into flinching and constricting. Then his tongue is on Sherlock's neck. He laps at the blood trail, his own saliva mixing with his own blood on Sherlock's skin. "Yes," John breathes out again.

_"Yes"_ was fast becoming Sherlock's favorite word.

John's eyes flick from their gray-hazel to a nearly blue color with his excitement. "Roll over," he murmurs into the skin just below Sherlock's ear.

"No." Sherlock's voice is sharp and defiant as he lays his hands on John's chest and pushes him upwards. John shudders at the sudden latch of teeth and tongue and lips to the thin gash on his neck. The intrusion of a tongue along his cut stings smartly and drags a stuttering hiss of breath from him.

Feeling Sherlock's breath on his skin is a relief to John. He'd been pulled from some rather unsavory dreams regarding Sherlock and the pool and the comfort of having Sherlock there, alive, is wonderful. The feel of the blade at his neck had had John's head exploding- in the oddest pleasure.

"Damn it, Sherlock, don't make me move you." John snatches one of Sherlock's wrists, the one with the blade sitting in it. John nearly loses his self-control at seeing it flash, still covered in blood. He pauses, pulls the hand up to his mouth and nips at Sherlock's wrist. His teeth move steadily up Sherlock's thumb and to the base of the blade. Sticking the tip of his tongue out, John runs it up the blade, licking up the blood on it. A rush of sweet copper hits his senses. John moves his head down, blood still pooled on his tongue, and delves his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Shit, the taste of his own blood mixed with Sherlock's rich taste is near orgasmic. He pulls his head back and puts an edge to his voice. "Roll over."

This time, Sherlock doesn't argue. He turns around; maneuvering as well as he can while John remains perched above him. Their bodies crash and rub along one another in the shift of positions. John's cock is straining against the thin fabric of his pyjama pants. Once Sherlock is lying there, hands stretched out above his head to grasp the head board, John leans over to the drawer by his bed and pulls out a bottle of lube. He puts a dab of it in one palm and flicks open the slit in the front of his pants to release his erection. Rubbing the lube between his hands to warm it up, he rubs it up and down the length of his throbbing flesh.

Sherlock bucks his hips backwards. "John!" Sherlock was actually whinging at him, hands clasped round the headboard with the scalpel still plainly in one hand, and his back arched in a delicious bend. John needs to see flesh. He needs to see that flawless pale skin. Rubbing one hand down his pant leg to get the lube off, John pushes Sherlock's shirt up and over his head. Sherlock doesn't complain this time. Grabbing the back of the waistband, he tugs Sherlock's pyjama pants down as well. The pale curvature of Sherlock's body is taut as he waits impatiently for John.

John places his hand, the one still slicked with lube, at the base of Sherlock's spine and moves downwards. He pushes the tips of his fingers into Sherlock, teasing and testing in short pulses. The throaty moans and gasps from Sherlock are drawing John painfully hard. Pulling his fingers away, John grabs Sherlock's hips and pulls them upwards, off of the bed. He places the tip of his erection in place and slowly pushes forward. Sherlock rewards him with a grunt of his name. John leans forward; his chest presses into the pale skin of Sherlock's back, and he lets his lips dance over the hairline at the back of Sherlock's neck. He rocks his hips forward into Sherlock's arse, eyes fluttering back in his head at the tight feel of him.

Sherlock gasps painfully and John moves his hand up along the Sherlock's arm to his wrist. John finds the scalpel still sitting in Sherlock's hand has cut Sherlock. As John moves his hand to take a hold of the blade he's met with a sharp bite of metal and a tearing feel along his palm. His mind explodes with fire and ice, knocking his equilibrium out of balance. Pushing the blade up out of their grasp, he intertwines his bleeding hand with Sherlock's. John pushes himself up further, his hips thrusting in a quick rhythm. The pain and pleasure mixed dangerously. Setting his face next to Sherlock's, John finds he likes the look on Sherlock's face. It's concentrated, intense. Their breaths sharply exhale into one another and when John lays his lips onto Sherlock's he drags the last of Sherlock's breath from him and into John. Both John and Sherlock rock and shudder together in climbing ecstasy.

"John…I don't want him- you're mine- my heart…"

"I know." John tightens his grip on Sherlock's hand, grinding their cuts together and mingling their blood painfully. As they fell into the oblivion of a shared orgasm, John whispered against his lips. "You're my heart, too, Sherlock."


	2. Alternate Ending

John could hear Sherlock breathing heavily next to him. He was asleep, scalpel tossed aside on the vanity. Sherlock was right, John thought sitting up in bed and resting back on the headboard. His fingers played over the cool metal of his Army piece, brushing the trigger and stroking the barrel as he listened to his flatmate's deep breaths.

Sherlock's heart was as much a part of John's as John's was for Sherlock. That heart did not belong in the sadistic grip of Moriarty. That particular heart was John's to burn. Or shoot. He wondered if Sherlock would fight him. He figured probably not. He figured Sherlock would understand.

Turning gray hazel eyes to his flatmate, to the genius in his bed, John smiled. They were both willing to die for one another. They both _could_ die for one another then Sherlock would win with such completeness; they'd beat Moriarty soundly.

"Sherlock," John grumbled, still holding the gun.

"Mur…" Sherlock's voice was a soft murmur.

John sighed, turned his head away from the man and rolled his eyes. Yes, this barely conscious bloke was the man John Watson had killed for and nearly died for multiple times. "Sherlock get up. You're right."

There was some grumbling and tossing of sheets while Sherlock found his way into a conscious state. "I'm always correct. Well, nearly always."

"Yes, I know." John looked down at his gun and smiled slowly. "But you're absolutely right this time, about Moriarty. He can't have your heart. Or mine." The hard metallic cocking of a gun echoed around the room.

Sherlock sat up taller and looked at John's hands. "That's crude, John. Messy."

John laughed and picked up the scalpel from his side of the bed. "And this isn't?"

Sherlock snatched the blade and held it tenderly. "Well, same effect anyway."

"Bleeding together wouldn't be so bad." John shifted, straddling Sherlock's lap and put the gun to his chest. "I can make sure he won't burn your heart. I'll take your heart, and you'll take mine." He watched the scalpel move up to rest along his jugular.

Smiling slowly, Sherlock reached up and stroked the gun in John's hands. "Yes, John."

John's eyes followed Sherlock's hand then moved up to his face. His silver eyes were sharp as the tips of sunlight fought their way through the blinds. The hollows of his cheeks looked deeper in the shadows. He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant, sitting beneath John. Sherlock was his and John would be damned if Moriarty ever got his hands on Sherlock.


End file.
